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Originally uploaded by Wanchen Tai

Between the end of spring and the commencement of summer, we found a mother Chinese bulbul and its three babies nesting in the Azalea bushes at the garden. These small lives have brought excitement to my parents, who have attentively watched them and faithfully reported their progress since the day the nest took shape.

Two pumpkin-shaped calamondins were found among their plump comrades. The orange skin shone like the beaming sun. I was amazed at the visual effect that was produced when they were rested on an old rattan chair. The stripy pattern that was shared between them made a wonderful tapestry of simplicity.

The time that I have spent at home since January has been an ongoing observation of different moments of lives: living and dying.

While I was celebrating the tender lives of the 3 chicks and the vibrant color that signaled summer's approach, a life faded out in that same afternoon.

After several months' illness, little P, our pet dog, died. Little P was not little at all, he was the type of breed that usually has stout body-build. However, he had never been like dogs of his breed but rather quiet and timid in many ways.
When I touched the corpse of little P and helped to remove it to be buried,
I was speechless being confronted with death, the silent, watchful and powerful presence of which was right there feeling my hands.

Death itself is fearful, I think. What is overwhelming lies in the moment when life and death make contact. It is still hard to believe how life was just breathed away and how it was simply gone despite the efforts that were made to rescue it.

I was smelling the smell of little P for the entire night and day afterwards wherever I went, a smell of both life and death, living and dying.

The chicks and their mother are chirping in the garden; the backyard is left empty and quiet.